


Extra Spice

by ahimsabitches



Category: overwatch
Genre: Drabble, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 13:33:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7534645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahimsabitches/pseuds/ahimsabitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This fic was on Tumblr and I'm backing it up here. It features two of my OCs I will probably never do anything with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Extra Spice

His breath wheezes into his lungs like lonely wind around a dune and hacks out like a flooded tanker engine. 

He knows the taste of Jamie’s smoke like he knows the taste of his skin, and nothing of the angry black cloud he stumbles through is Jamie’s. He reaches for a canister of hogdrogen but he grabs at empty air. Using his well-tuned sense of direction, he stumbles through the cloud, waving his massive hands in front of him to clear the smoke that clots his lungs despite the mask.

“Jamie!” he calls, but it comes out a deep and chesty croak.

Things had gone tits-up fast and hard. Whatever goddamned _secret_ Jamie guarded, and needed Roadhog to guard _him_ for, kept _catching up_ to them. Every heist, whether it was Jamie’s idea or Mako’s, always came with a little extra _spice_ , usually in the form of surprise gunfire (those scars were mostly healed), a team of annoyingly proficient agents in black (he was still scrubbing their blood off his hook), or, in this case and others, bombs with shorter fuses, wider shrapel zones, and cannier designers than Jamie.

“Jamie,” he wheezes again. The smoke darkens and congeals on his right and he pulls up short before he smacks into a wall. He leans on it, sweating profusely under his mask, but he won’t take it off yet. He moves along the wall, one meaty hand on it to both steady himself and to mark any changes, since the eyeholes of his mask are smudged with soot outside and fogged with his own hot, coppery breath inside.

The wall disappears, and he stumbles into a pitch-black room that roars with the oceanic silence that comes after a killing cataclysm.

“ _JAMIE! ANSWER ME_!” Panic scrabbles at the base of his brain but he hammers it back.

“Lookin’ fer this?”

Mako spins and there is a flash of yellow and orange in front of him. His heart uppercuts his ribs and he rips his mask off. Two people, their skin uncannily close to the color of the smoke, hold a sagging unconscious Jamie between them. 

One, her grin a crazed half-moon in the smoky dimness, has round flat charges, homemade EMPs, bandoliered across her bare– and single-breasted– chest. A flat, neatly puckered line is the only scar he can see under a bright tattoo. The other does not grin but unshoulders Jamie and hands him to Mako, who scoops him up. The man’s bandoliers are filled with long, spiny silver implements. Medical, if Mako has to guess.

“He ain’t hurt,” the man says with a pout. “Just concussed. Oughtta wake up in a bit.”

“A good sport, he were!” the woman crows, bouncing on her toes and rattling the bandoliers festooing her. “Don’t meet many blokes keen as him wid’ bombs n’ fuses!”

Jamie stirs in his arms. “Oi,” he croaks weakly. “I made us some friends.”


End file.
